


They have wronged [Temple]

by hazk



Series: Simulation Theory [2]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempt at Humor, Can be read on its own, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Post Season/Series 10, Self-Reflection, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:48:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23740345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hazk/pseuds/hazk
Summary: Every Red and Blue should have a reason for wanting revenge, and Temple recruits two more to help exact his own: One with promise to become an avid believer of his cause, the other a more complicated afterthought.It doesn't go well. Especially not for Temple.
Relationships: Dexter Grif & Mark Temple, Dexter Grif & Walter Henderson, Mark Temple & Walter Henderson
Series: Simulation Theory [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1654282
Comments: 7
Kudos: 9





	1. Double the trouble

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place after season 10. The divergence: After his reds and blues got killed by Omega & the Meta, Walter Henderson escaped from wherever Project Freelancer had locked him up for safekeeping. He then returned to the abandoned Valhalla Outpost.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You sure you’re not coming?”

Valhalla at night was freezing. It’s been a while since Henderson’s last been self aware enough to notice that fact.

Inside the Red Base, and efficiently curled up in a blanket by the kitchen table, he ate the bland rations and cursed his luck. More than that though, he felt betrayed by his own mind for the way he could almost feel at home at this damned place.

The Base used to be filled with life. Now it wasn’t.

And it was fucking freezing.

* * *

The days were warm, the nights were not. It had been an easy way to set his routine. 

Every day Henderson waited in what he considered to be a patient manner, always curled up in his thin blanket and staring at the open waters by the Red Base. It shouldn’t take too long. He should be getting the hell out of here _soon._

Then, the moment the sun began to set, he had to hurry inside to avoid freezing to death. And after everything he had been through, what a way to go that would have been.

Chuckling to himself at the thoughts of an unflattering death, Henderson wandered off the roof, down the ramp and inside the Red Base that belonged all to him now. Not for the first time, he wondered (out loud): 

“Does that mean I’ve won? The war? Would Saa—”

The words stopped short and Henderson chuckled some more, shaking his head rather fondly at his own stupidity. Humming now, he made his way towards his bed, the blanket wrapped tight across his shoulders. And then there was a knock on the door.

The Base has no door.

“Knock-knock!”

“That’s better—”

Henderson stopped on his feet and turned, eyes wide. Horrified. 

He was alone at Valhalla and had been for a while. Plus, he knew when he imagined his company and this wasn’t it.

“Hello, hello! Anyone in there?”

A man’s voice, a loud voice; a voice Henderson didn’t know.

Henderson’s hand slipped under the blanket and from his waist he pulled free a pistol. His shoulders raised and he made a decision.

Like a ghost he moved towards the front of the Red Base, the pistol ready and the familiar halls guiding his way. They were his walls, and this was his Base.

An unknown intruder at night wasn’t what he had been waiting for.

Henderson sneaked near the entrance and turned a corner, peeking at the opening. The last light of the setting sun lit up the space and almost blinded him, though simultaneously hiding him deeper into the edges of the Base’s shadows.

“I’m coming in! Don’t shoot!” the man called out and, against the light, Henderson could only see his sharply lined silhouette without getting any more features to describe him by. But Henderson could never mistake the sound of his footsteps:

Unlike him, the man was wearing armor.

Henderson backed away.

“I repeat; If anyone’s in here, don’t shoot! I’m unarmed, I promise, you’d feel like shit if you shot me in the back right about now!”

He gulped. There was always the back entrance. Henderson could hurry towards it and run; up the hills and into the caves.

Although, he would most likely get spotted immediately if he tried to leave. No one stranger could have just walked up to Valhalla without company, plan, or a vehicle—

Well, no. Henderson himself had done that once, when he had first escaped the prison Project Freelancer had held him in. But that had been ages ago. 

No one would just randomly _get lost_ in Valhalla, then. The man was here for a reason, and Henderson…

“No one home? Just letting you know: If there’s no one in here, I’m planning to empty out every single thing left in this place before the UNSC can come back to claim it!”

Huh.

The man wasn’t from the UNSC? Probably not, the more Henderson thought about it. When had the UNSC bothered sending in one, loud guy to check out a building without any more of a fanfare. At least, based on the little military life he had actually seen, that's the mental image he had of their operations.

But who else would walk around in armor?

“Alrighty then! Final warning: I don’t want to get shot, and promise I won’t take your stuff if you guys just, come out and tell me not to take it!”

Wearing nothing but his undersuit and the blanket on top, the pistol held steady in his hand, Henderson took another step back. Paused. Then changed his mind and walked around the corner and towards the man instead.

There was a Blue simulation trooper standing there. He had to be a simulation trooper, because no one— wait. Again: _No_.

A lot of soldiers (in space!) wore color nowadays, didn’t they? 

It made no sense to him why, but Henderson knew better than to question people's fashion statements. So what if more military organizations decided to paint their employees as easy targets, and not just PFL who had literally used their people as such!

“I’m here”, Henderson said, voice as steady as it could be with a pistol pointed at the strange man – a man he could now very clearly see to be unarmed. “Don’t touch my things. I need it all.”

This is the call Henderson had made: He was alone at Valhalla and his supplies were limited as is. If he just let the guy take them, he’d be as good as doomed when his rescue didn’t arrive as soon as he had hoped for it to.

“Oh. Hello!” The Blue simulation trooper raised his arms up in the air, just half way, and in his left hand Henderson could see a touchpad of some sort. “I actually thought the place was abandoned, so… This is a happy surprise, huh?”

“Yeah… _Happy_ ”, Henderson said, the gun trained on the Blue’s visor. He didn’t like the color blue on a stranger; that much of his "military career" was still well hammered into his brain. “You can go now?”

Instead of leaving, though, the Blue trooper let out a laugh. “No, don’t think so.”

Henderson’s finger twitched by the trigger and the Blue’s hands raised a little higher in response. “Ah, no! Not like that, sorry, I’m not threatening you! Just saying, why not… have a chat, before I go? You seem like you haven’t had company in” – he looked around, glancing inside the makeshift kitchen of the Red Base – “a good, long while.”

The stranger was wrong, but Henderson wasn’t about to say it. Instead, he lowered his weapon just a bit. Maybe a nicer approach would get him to… fuck off. 

Henderson wasn’t overly excited about the idea of shooting the Blue by accident, which was the actual reason he took an awkward step back.

“Any more of you out there?” Henderson asked, attempting to go for commanding but coming off as very obviously uncomfortable by the whole situation. Not often are you in your abandoned, offsite military Base, just chilling, when a guy walks in like an everyday door-to-door salesman. Or a preacher, seeing the pad the man now held up to his chest almost as if about to bow at him. 

Henderson took another step back.

“Well yes, I have a ship outside and…” The man paused, a hand to his chin and Henderson uninterested in telling him to get them hands back in the air, what with the guy being very much unarmed still. “There are… Let me count: One, two, three, four, five, six… Six men plus me.“

The Blue had made the count using his fingers, having to have juggled the pad along to make the move possible. It had been odd to watch and Henderson made a face at it, annoyed at himself for not having his own armor on for any sort of credibility and protection (read as: Henderson didn’t want the man to see just how scared of him he was). 

“Seven…” Henderson mumbled, and didn’t like his odds. The pistol’s weight wasn’t nearly enough to make him feel safe.

“We are simulation troopers”, the Blue added, seeing Henderson calculate his (low) chances of survival in case of conflict. “Ex-sim troopers? It’s not really a thing to be one anymore, is it?”

“Sim… troopers…” That much was confirmed then, which made sense with the lack of skill the Blue appeared to be armed with. And did that count as a self burn, Henderson thought for a moment.

“Are you one?” the guy asked and tilted his head, appearing very curious to hear the answer. “You’re not wearing any armor so it’s sorta hard to tell”, he added, then seemed to snort at the stupidity of that very fact. Outside of armor, they were only human after all. Hah. ”But can’t think of any other reason for you to be at an abandoned Simulation Outpost, so… Oh, wait. Sorry.”

The man’s arms dropped to his sides and he went very, very quiet. 

It was very, very disconcerting.

“You, uhh… You know what it means, right? To be… a ‘simulation trooper’? If you even are one? You know, the whole Blue vs. Red thing? Were you a part of that?” 

The man’s voice had gone very, very quiet, too, when he had said that last line. Henderson found himself thinking that maybe he should learn some more tact in bringing that one up with people like them. It all having been for nothing was a rather sore subject, especially if you had killed some of your simulated opposition first.

Henderson had never killed anyone, though. He had just had to watch everyone else in the Outpost _be killed –_ first by an invisible threat and then the reanimated corpse of a Freelancer.

Good times.

“I know what it means”, Henderson said under his breath. “You said you won’t take my stuff, and I want you to leave. Right now, yeah?”

The Blue’s shoulders seemed to regain their confidence, as if relieved he hadn’t just shattered Henderson’s entire world view with his careless words. And then… Then he did something unexpected.

The Blue simulation trooper walked up to him and offered him his hand. And then he waited.

The moment of silent staring between them had turned real awkward real fast, especially with the way Henderson had still been pointing a gun vaguely at the man’s feet. He had almost shot off the Blue’s toe in his surprise – before having passed the weapon awkwardly to his left hand, to make it possible for him to even accept the handshake.

Henderson had felt no other option than to shake the man’s hand, just to get over how horribly uncomfortable the whole thing had been.

“The name’s Mark Temple. And you are?”

“Henderson…” he said slowly, taken aback by the other man’s introduction for a list of reasons. Most importantly, for the second time now, the word "preacher" popped up in his head. “Walter. Walter Henderson.”

“Good to meet you, Walter! Say, is it just you left at this Outpost or…?”

With a smile in his voice, a Blue simulation trooper had walked up to Red Base and knocked politely on a door that did not exist. A Red trooper is lost for words, a pistol hanging uselessly at his side.

There’s a joke in there somewhere, but Henderson didn’t find it. “Uh…”

Not waiting for an answer, this “Temple” turned around and began to walk straight back towards the entrance, strolling out of the Base and practically demanding Henderson to follow if he wanted to keep an eye on the man. Which he hid. And so he followed.

“Um.” Henderson looked around the empty yard while the winds of Valhalla pushed at him to back away, back in the Base. There were smart strategies to pull here, in these sorts of situations, but… “It’s just me left?” 

“You don’t seem so sure”, Temple noted with a sweet tilt to his voice. “How long have you been here, then?”

“Some time.” 

Henderson stared at Temple’s back with his pistol forever held tightly in his grip, though it was no longer being pointed at the man. By the waterline, he saw a midsized ship which must have been very quiet to have landed there without him having noticed (or he had just been very tired, talking to himself to pass the time. That could have had something to do with it).

By the ship, he could also see the other “simulation troopers” stepping out, some pointing his way with a wave of their hands. It was a colorful bunch, and Henderson felt his breath catch at the sight.

“Alright, the hell are you doing here?” Henderson snapped, his hand twitching and Temple’s visor moving in the direction of the pistol once more. “Who are you guys?”

“Have you read the news?” Temple asked and finally lifted up the pad in his hands, turning it around to show him just what was on it. There was a website open, the screen focused on what looked (very loosely) like a press photo.

Henderson leaned in closer to take a better look at the article and its own lineup of troopers. The headline above them read: "Colorful Space Marines Stop Corruption".

Blinking, he looked up at Temple and the group aimlessly wandering behind him. “You’re… cosplaying as the Reds and Blues?”

There was a long pause, Temple frozen on spot and Henderson feeling the need to spin around, walk back, and lock the door behind him: 

If only the Red Base had that damned door. If only.

“Oh no! No, my apologies for the confusion!” Temple said, his voice going up and down in a manner Henderson had a hard time tying to any specific emotion. “We aren’t trying to pretend to be them! That’s not it, not at all! The opposite, really – I’m showing you the article to let you know how much _better_ than them we are!”

And wasn’t that just… something. 

What, was the guy walking around with a touchpad ready just in case he ever got to flaunt his ego at someone? 

Henderson was confused, and became even more so when Temple went to pull off his helmet. The Blue was revealed to be wearing a wide smile, which was a bad match for Henderson’s more bewildered expression. 

Temple’s smile, he noted, was stretched a little too wide at the corners, causing Henderson to feel that much more out of place in the man’s presence. He didn’t return the smile.

“So you just… happen to have the same set of armor as” – Henderson ignored the rest of Temple’s words and gestured at the picture of the Reds and Blues, feeling uncomfortable at the sight of them celebrated (as heroes, huh) – “these guys?”

“We were a part of the same ‘Project’, and hardly had a say in what they made us wear”, Temple scoffed in reply, studying Henderson’s only blanket-wearing, shivering form. Because yeah; Valhalla at night was freezing. “I mean, sure, we could change _now_ , but it’s a little difficult to find a new, fitting set of armor without pulling off some sort of a heist, you know? We might as well use what they gave us, to protect ourselves from them!”

“Huh.” Henderson thought of that for a second, then agreed. He had a similar idea about it, in his worry over the UNSC’s remaining hold on his name. Because it had to be the UNSC Temple was talking about, yeah? “Sure. Though you could just paint them, but I guess it would get even messier to change when you’re used to what you’ve got. The color, I mean.” 

Henderson sure as hell could never imagine himself wearing anything put the set of armor he considered his own by now; until the day he could finally stop wearing one for good. Temple seemed eager to agree, nodding his head and waving around the helmet in his non-pad carrying hand. 

“I’ve seen some simulation troopers from the other Outposts, asked a few to join us… You’d be surprised by how many different sets of armor they had for people like us! Either PFL made each of us wear whatever happened to be available or there were some… more _experimental_ reasons for the changes.”

“Oh?” Henderson looked first at Temple’s armor and then at the rest of his company that milled about the Base. Henderson didn’t want them anywhere near his stuff, but he had a feeling they wouldn’t listen if he suddenly tried to yell at them to back off. 

They were better armed than he was, Temple the only one without any weapons on him. And that’s a belated realization that really fucking sucked, Henderson thought as he glanced back down at his lack of armor and the pistol he noticed he was still holding (very uselessly) in his non-dominant hand. 

Trying to take Temple as a hostage would probably not work out well for him.

Not paying attention to Henderson’s mental or physical struggles (he was cold too, damn it), Temple nodded. “With my group’s mismatch of colors, I think the armors were an experiment in enhancing our individuality. PFL liked their ‘tests’, after all.”

Henderson didn't really care, but he was a bit worried what would happen if he let it show. “Individuality? That's a weird one.”

“Yes. I believe they wanted to see how we were affected by the fact that we could tell exactly who we were aiming our weapons at; able to see our ‘enemy’ as more than a singular mass of the one, same color. When my team of Blues could always tell the Reds apart, it was easier to… recognize each of their personalities. Humanity. Worth. Whatever you wanna call it.”

Henderson hadn’t thought of it like that, but he supposed it made sense. Valhalla had been filled with the same set of armor in two opposing colors, and he didn’t know the names of any of the Blues. They were long dead anyway, so it would take actual effort to find them out now.

Maybe he would go through that effort one day. Out of armor.

There was some survivor’s guilt in him, maybe? Should probably talk about that with someone (not Temple).

“—and they obviously don’t understand! So. We have no choice but to regroup and try to make things better for our—”

Henderson snapped out of his thoughts, having completely missed out on whatever spiel Temple had just gone off with. “Huh?”

Temple paused before turning back to Henderson. His eyes were blank. “…huh?”

They stared at each other for a moment longer before Henderson pointed the pistol back towards the Red Base. “I should… get back inside. And you—?”

“—oh, we’ll be right off, you’ll get no further trouble from us!” Temple said, the smile coming right back and Henderson trapped under his gaze. “Do tell me, though; you got any skills, a plan for when and if you ever get to go back to living a normal life? Just curious, one ex-simulation trooper to another…”

“I did… study engineering. Electrical.” Henderson hadn’t actually gotten personal in ages, not about his past. He didn’t get why he felt so pressured to do it now, but he just couldn’t bring himself to walk away from this man.

Though it’s worth mentioning – not to Temple - that Henderson had more than studied engineering: He had failed to graduate and drowned in debt, which had driven him to join the military in the first place (but not with the title “engineer”, when even the Red Army hadn’t trusted him with their stuff). 

And look where it got him, chatting up strangers who creeped him the fuck out!

“Engineering? Hm.” That had earned him a curious look from Temple. The Blue's eyes scanned the Outpost and stopped at the radio tower Henderson had helped put back together – the lucky tower had been taken down twice in its time, by two separate explosions. “That could be a useful skill…”

“For what?”

“For things I’ve been considering, to make all our lives a little easier! Wanna come with us? I can tell you all about it on the flight over”, Temple asked, arms crossed and the pad held tight over his chest; watching the ocean waves. At least in appearance, he left it all up to Henderson to think through. “Our Gulch isn’t as nice as yours, though, but the setup's already there and we have no choice but to get back to it.”

“Uh…” Henderson stood there, stared, and did think about it. Maybe Temple had explained what this "setup" was meant to be for, but he really hadn’t been listening for a moment there. “Actually. I think my next stop’s gonna be Earth.”

“Oh, so you’re actually going home?” Temple spun back around, eyes sharp. “And you’re getting there how exactly?”

“Just…” Henderson avoided Temple’s gaze and thought about it some more. “I’ve got patience.”

“To wait until someone happens to pass by and offer you a lift?” Temple said, his tone slipping somewhere closer to insulting. Henderson wasn’t a fan, but—

“I must insist!” Temple suddenly exclaimed, all smiles and gesturing around the open, empty greenery that was Valhalla in the dark. The sun had set by now. “I don’t see what you gain by staying here, all alone! Come with us, Henderson? We can offer you work, food and company – along with the promise that we understand what you’ve been through! And yes, if the UNSC won’t be paying back our dues, we’ll find a way home with something to support us.”

“Hah.” 

Henderson had been (sort of) promised a lift straight back to Earth by the end of his wait in Valhalla. Still, he got the feeling Temple wouldn’t be too happy to hear just who had told him that, which is partially why Henderson found himself saying: 

“Could you get your guys not to mess with my stuff? Seriously. _This_ is my home.”

Valhalla might have been silent only for a week now, but it still had a haunting sort of hold over anyone there. It wasn’t his "home", it never would be, but the longer these guys were wandering around the Outpost, the more agitated Henderson felt himself becoming. 

It wasn’t just his stuff left behind here, though the rest of the physical goods had mostly been cleared out by now. The others only had Henderson to come back to Valhalla for, and he had to trust they would. Had to. To get out of the graveyard of those he had once been enlisted with.

Temple took a step towards his ship. He called at the rest of his troupe to follow along and leave everything untouched. 

Then, he glanced back at Henderson. “Last chance to join us, before we go?”

* * *

**— ONE WEEK EARLIER —**

* * *

“You sure you’re not coming?”

“Very”, Henderson replied, arms crossed as he watched Grif and Simmons pack what little belongings they still had and wanted to take with them. “Sorry, but I don’t want my name on this… thing.”

“What ‘thing’? We were pardoned, the UNSC’s thanking us for stopping the Director, and we’ll finally be recognized for _something_ ”, Simmons said, lost in thought but obviously eager for whatever title said recognition would bring him. “We hear them out and then we’ll ask them to take us back to Earth! We’re—”

“Done”, Grif finished, sat on his bed and looking very uninterested in the whole conversation. “Sweet, sweet retirement. Here we come.”

“But it’s _the UNSC_. Maybe I’m being stupid, but you know I don’t want them to know I exist! We checked: Every record left says I’m already _dead”_ – Henderson tapped his fingers anxiously against his forearm, snapping to himself more than at the other two as he spoke – “and I’m happy to start over. Rather that, than to be… me.”

Someone else could keep his debts, Henderson thought. Someone else could be never visited at by his grave (if he had one).

“That’s sad”, Simmons said without really paying attention to him. In their short time together, Henderson had learned enough of the guy to know he had somewhat unhealthy reasons for even wanting to get his own name out there. 

It wasn't hard to miss Simmons’ daddy issues, especially with Grif more than willing to bring them up (whenever he got pissed off at him. Which wasn’t often, but the two had their own issues that Henderson’s was no more interested to get involved with). 

Simmons kept on talking, not actually thinking about it as he did, “There’s no one waiting for you back home?”

 _“Home?”_ Henderson almost felt bad for Simmons. Almost. “Does any of us?”

Grif snorted, pulling out a pack of cigarettes and counting them. He hadn’t gotten his haul restocked in ages, so that’s one thing Henderson knew him eager to see fixed aboard the UNSC’s ships – or wherever the space station was that they were invited to for this "thing".

Simmons kept his eyes on his own packing and said nothing, didn’t even flinch. Either he hadn’t heard or he had gotten better at pretending he hadn't, Henderson thought. 

“If we did have someone waiting back there”, Henderson continued, feeling his own issues beginning to rear head and unable to stop talking, “Project Freelancer wouldn’t have been able to hide the shit they put us through! If anyone ‘back home’ thought of us _once_ , they would have asked after us by now…”

When Henderson thought about the UNSC pretending to care for this group of troopers, only for the sake of being done with their "past mistakes", it made his stomach twist in knots. He didn’t want to be asked to _trust them again_.

Grif gave Henderson a look. “Way to ruin the mood, asshole”, he said, but his voice remained as bored as ever. No sign of anger was lost in it, not towards Henderson nor the UNSC: he, too, must have gotten his act together somehow. “So what, you’re okay trusting _we’ll_ get you a lift out of here, when we’re done with the party?”

“Yes!” 

And that Henderson was serious about, his eyes locked on Grif’s and ordering him – though it came out more like begging when he said; “When they offer you that ride wherever you wish to go next, you tell them you left something important back here and, just, sneak me off the place with you! That should be fine, yeah? If they think you’re really ‘heroes’, _or_ _whatever you’re expecting them to call you_ ”, Henderson said with a snort, cause no way was that gonna happen, “they’ll do whatever you ask!” 

“Well… As long as the route we're taking isn’t the other wa—” Simmons began, but Henderson’s wide eyed stare turning to his back seemed to chill him enough to not feel like continuing that thought. “Uh. Sure? We’ll try. To get you out of here without anyone knowing.”

“Thank—”

“—I’m just saying”, Simmons interrupted and turned to glance at him, fighting back the discomforting effect Henderson still had on him, “you’re making this more complicated than it has to be. The UNSC doesn’t care about us, we all know that, so why not use what they gave us and just… play along. Until we’re gone and. Done. Right?”

Henderson thought some more about the UNSC, the Project and the time he had spent in a jail cell just waiting for someone to "expose of him" when he got proven useless. He thought about signing in to join the war, of a purpose, and he thought about Earth. He thought about his debts, and he thought about the way his name only mattered as a footnote on some military paperwork that had been used to sell him off.

Walter Henderson had died. He was better off for it, was his firm belief.

“You’ll get me out of here, right?” Henderson asked again, ignoring Simmons’ words. “You’ll come get me? Soon? I helped you out, with the fight against the Director, so you won’t just leave me here?”

“If the UNSC's alright with a pitstop, yeah”, was Grif’s reply, now on his feet and exiting the room with his stuff. “We’ll ask them.”

And with that, Henderson had been left alone in Valhalla for the very first time since Project Freelancer’s pet AIs had killed all of the Outpost's other, original occupants. He hadn’t even thought about that being the case until he had snuck out of the safety of the caves, well after the UNSC had picked up the Reds and Blues for their _well-deserved party_.

A week later, the wrong set of Blue and Red armor had showed up to ask for his hand, is what it had felt like. And Henderson…

Henderson had no reason to trust anyone, did he? So why would he trust Grif and the rest of these "heroes" to actually come back for him?

Though the messenger behind it did scare him shitless, Henderson felt very little reason to decline the new chance of an escape he was being offered by Temple. He really was being stupid, huh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, and Henderson joined forces with our Reds and Blues when they passed through Valhalla on their way to take down the Director. That’s pretty important for the purposes of this story, too!
> 
> Aka. Walter Henderson (with his short scene in s6ep1) happens to be one of my favourite characters in the show. I have my reasons, and this is more or less me treating myself. So yeah. Enjoy?


	2. Triple the regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “May I ask you to join us, then?”

Grif was going to hold his end of the bargain. Not that it was a bargain, but more like a… favor.

Not that he was good with favors either (they didn’t interest him much), but something about the idea of leaving Henderson alone, in Valhalla, for any longer than absolutely necessary did manage to rub him the wrong way. Simply put, he had a feeling he wouldn’t want to be the one left behind.

And it's not like Grif didn't get something pretty neat out of the deal:

He got to tell a member of the UNSC to _just_ _trust him with this_ – and somehow, the hero bullshit had worked on the obvious newbie of the crew. Who let Grif borrow a Pelican. Without telling anyone.

Grif didn’t give a shit about the logistics of it, and it wasn’t him about to get in trouble when someone spotted the vehicle missing and possibly damaged by the end of his trip. As long as he got to Henderson and managed to sneak him back in a box or some shit – considering the guy’s wish to remain forever hidden from the UNSC – it would maybe, probably all work out just fine.

In that moment though, with the Pelican all his, the only thing Grif had really cared about was the ability to fly (in space!) all in his lonesome and as fast as the ship’s controls could allow. He thought about maybe returning to Earth soon and how this, _this_ , was the one thing he would sure as hell miss about being a fake space marine.

Henderson was a side thought, the enabler of his high, and for that much Grif could feel thankful to the other Red for.

Or he would have, if there hadn’t already been another ship parked by Valhalla’s Red Base. 

* * *

Grif hadn’t noticed the ship because he hadn’t even thought to think there could be someone other than Henderson around to witness his return to Valhalla. That, and it already being night, was the only excuse he had for landing his ship without noticing the other one at the opposite end of the Red Base, said ship guarded by—

“Simmons?”

Grif’s brain didn’t keep up with it too well.

He had rushed over from the spacecraft the UNSC had stuffed the Reds and Blues into. He had just seen the others busy aboard the ship, looting the rooms and troubling the crew, so how the hell could Simmons have snuck all the way back to Valhalla before he did?

And then there was Henderson, wearing a blanket and staring up at Grif in the cockpit like a deer caught in the headlights (which Grif’s Pelican did in fact have, and which were very much being pointed at Henderson). And then there was the cobalt blue armor stood right next to the guy, its head cut off by the shadows.

Henderson waved up at him, maybe a little uncertainly, and Grif was just so fucking confused by the whole scene. It was already night, so maybe he was just seeing things—and wasn’t that a nice thought, one Simmons would most certainly appreciate. Grif shook his head.

Grif watched Henderson slowly begin to approach the Pelican, glancing behind where the cobalt blue guy had crossed his arms, and made a choice. It was a pretty bad choice, all future events considered, but he was no better than Henderson had been at figuring this one out.

Grif got out of the ship and took a wandering step towards Henderson, his orange armor lit up by the headlights that he had left on. In the distance, the cobalt guy’s arms dropped to his sides in shock.

“The fuck is happening here?” Grif asked, going for casual but sounding cranky instead. It was already late at night, so who wouldn't be; regardless of the situation he had found himself in.

“Uh, I have no idea?” Henderson offered, still glancing behind himself. The Blue guy wasn’t approaching them. “You…” Henderson’s stance remained stiff and he gulped, his lack of armor allowing Grif see just how distraught he was. He must have been freezing, too, wearing nothing but the blanket over his undersuit. “You came back to get me?”

“Sure…” Grif stared past Henderson, trying to better make out the two figures in the distance. One looked like Simmons, and the other like… Church…

So, that was pretty damn suspicious. 

Especially when the Church-looking one walked up to the Simmons-wannabe and seemed to start some sort of a whispering match.

Henderson gestured towards Grif’s ship and whispered, “We should… maybe go? Yeah?”

“Huh?” Tearing his eyes off the two figures in the distance, Grif turned his attention back to Henderson. “So, who the hell are those guys? They're dressed like us? What the fuck do they want?”

Henderson shrugged, very uselessly, and said, “Don’t know, but I sort of… already agreed to go with them? Really don’t think I want to, now that you’re an option.”

“And you can’t just tell them you're turning down the offer because…?”

“Because they creep me the fuck out, _Grif?_ ” Henderson hissed back, attempting to stand all relaxed so that the two men watching wouldn’t feel the need to approach them. Grif could see that they had fallen silent and were staring at them again, unmoving, and that was… Yeah: creepy as fuck.

Grif wasn’t too happy about it, in the dark of the night and with only a spaceship to light up his immediate surroundings. It was only then he also noticed the pistol glinting in Henderson’s hand, which didn't help with the visual any.

“So… We… Back up all natural like and get in the ship…” Grif said, actually trying to figure out the chances of an escape. Some of the Pelican’s systems were still running, but he wasn’t an actual expert and there were still things he would have to do before taking off: it would take a while.

“Can we? Leave? Right now?” Henderson sounded very hopeful and Grif almost felt sorry when he had to shake his head, crossing his arms to act as natural as he was capable of. The cobalt blue guy had now begun to slowly approach them, so… 

“Not enough time to take off without them getting in the way if they wanted to, and… You sure we can’t just talk to them? Are you just into your usual, paranoid bullshit, or…?”

Now it was Henderson’s turn to shake his head, though a little uncertain still. “I have no clue. Honest. Would have just… liked to get out without having to figure that one out…? Way easier.”

“Well hello there!” the Blue guy greeted them, still from some distance and approaching with a casual wave of his hand.

Grif had his rifle, but he didn't raise it: some sense must have developed over time without his knowing, and now it told him there were sights being aimed at him from the shadows all around them. Henderson shivered and Grif wondered if he had noticed the same thing.

It was probably more than plain paranoia, then. And it was made no better by the expression on the approaching Blue's face.

The man didn’t have his helmet on and he was smiling, but it was a disconcerting look on him. Didn’t quite fit his face. 

With a sigh, Henderson gestured towards him. “Said his name is Temple…”

“Temple…?” Underneath his helmet, Grif made a face. “That’s just… wrong. In so many ways.”

“Thought the same thing!” Henderson snorted, humorlessly but still with a bit of a glint in his eye. “Glad I’m not the only one…”

“Oh fuck you”, Grif hissed back, before this “Temple” could quite reach hearing range. “You’re the only reason I’m here; _this is on_ _you!_ ”

“Isn’t it always”, Henderson said, both of them turning to face Temple. They waited for him as if stood in attention, weapons held close to their sides.

* * *

“Since I already, sort of, told Henderson here just how I felt on the matter, I think it necessary to better explain myself with one of you actually present: We think it is amazing, what you and the other Reds and Blues have done! But yes, still, we are just a bit _unimpressed_ by the… conclusion to it.”

“The fuck are you on?” Grif said, tilting his head at Temple. “You always talk like this? I don’t understand a thing you’re saying.”

Temple stared at Grif. So did Henderson.

Although Temple had already used the word unimpressed, he sure looked it now. He said, “Ah. Well. I’m just trying out something new…”

“Makes you sound like an asshat. _I’m just_ _being honest here_ ”, Grif replied with a careful glance back at the Pelican, the look luckily hidden behind his helmet’s visor. “We can go now?”

“Oh… No. I don’t think so.” Temple seemed to shake off Grif's attitude as the serene smile returned to his face.

Henderson frowned. “Umm… You said that the first time; do I really need to listen through all of this again? I’m… still about to freeze to death.” His lips were beginning to turn blue, and it probably wasn’t a color he would have liked to see on himself any better than at an opposing Outpost.

Grif pointed back at his Pelican. “Yeah, Walt can just go and warm up while we chat some?” _—and then prep the ship for take off, Henderson, fucking figure it out; you’re the almost, sort of engineer here! And don't you dare leave me behind!!!!!_

Temple seemed to consider Grif’s words, then pointed his pad-holding hand at the very opposite direction instead. “Nah… Why won’t we go to my ship instead?” 

Simmons-wannabe was nowhere to be seen, Grif realized. Uh-oh.

“Red Base?” Henderson offered instead. Grif nodded, a little too eagerly adding in; “Oh yeah, _yeah._ I left something behind before I left; should go get it before we do shit—”

"No need." Temple shook his head, a smirk on his face. “I’m calling dibs to it all, and there’s nothing you two can do about it! And anyway, once we empty out the place, whatever you’ve left you’ll be reunited with at our final destination!”

That was the end to the pretense, then. 

Grif and Henderson straightened and their weapons raised some. Grif could still feel himself being targeted at from somewhere in the distance, which is the only reason he didn’t just try to shoot Temple on the spot.

“Dibs? You can’t call dibs on my stuff!” Henderson snapped. “I thought it was my choice? And I’ve changed my mind!”

“But not before making up your mind once, my good man! There are no take backs in conflict! Although no, actually”, Temple said, and the glee in his voice dropped for a beat, “even if I think it better you join us, I don’t have a problem if you instead choose to stay behind at your abandoned Base… You, on the other hand—” Temple pointed at Grif, the smile like a sticker plastered across his face “—I have no choice but to _demand_ you come along now that you’ve seen us.”

“I have no fucking clue why you need me”, was Grif’s sullen reply, what with him making no sense out of Temple's threat, “but I feel like you don’t got that one figured out either. So fine; whatever.”

"Well." Temple shrugged. “What can I say? It’s the early days still, and there’s a lot of planning I’m yet to do! More the reason I can’t have you running around, what with your face all over the papers.”

Again: Grif had no fucking idea what that could have possibly meant, but it couldn’t be anything good.

“Grif’s… gonna have to go with you?” Henderson asked, then visibly flinched to look back at Grif’s Pelican before locking his eyes on Temple’s. Almost coming across as hopeful, Henderson asked, “I don’t? I can stay?”

“Henderson…” Grif growled. “What are you doing?”

“Uh… Well.” Henderson scratched the back of his neck, eyeing Temple and skillfully avoiding Grif’s stare. “Nothing. Just. What would you need me for, anyway? Or Grif, right! Yeah! You have to have a reason for wanting him to go with you?”

For a moment, Temple’s smile fell just enough to turn into a frown. It hadn’t taken much effort. “I… already told you? You really didn’t listen to a word I said?”

“No…” Henderson shook his head, avoiding both of their eyes in embarrassment. “Thought I made that one pretty clear…”

“Then why did you even agree to come with me if you knew _he_ was coming to get you?” Temple gestured at Grif with the pad, actually appearing a little lost. Grif just glared at Henderson, unimpressed yet equally interested in hearing the answer.

“I, uh… “ Henderson glanced up at Grif and down at Temple, leaving Grif to note that Temple was actually a little shorter than either one of them. Henderson then shrugged. “Couldn’t be sure he would? Come back, you know. So.”

Grif could hardly complain with that fair of an assessment – he almost hadn’t come back for the asshole.

Big regret, that one.

“Oh.” Temple tapped a finger on the surface of his pad, seeming to accept the answer the same as Grif. “Well then”, he said and pointed towards his own ship some more. At least in appearances, he left it all up to Grif to think through. “May I ask you to join us, then?”

Grif grit his teeth and decided it was no use to think about it any. Very little he could do now, hearing the familiar sound of a shotgun being cocked somewhere close behind him. It wasn’t comforting at all.

“Let’s go”, Grif replied, turning his blank stare right back at Henderson who must have felt very small in his blanket, surrounded by the two armored figures who both had their eyes locked on him. Double the pressure, triple the fun.

“I guess… Unless, are you—” Henderson struggled to find the words as he glanced at Temple before gesturing vaguely at the Pelican Grif had arrived on. The ship was still the only thing illuminating their triangle talk in the dark of the night. “Can I have that?”

Temple snorted. “No, probably not. We could use an intact Pelican, and a guy to fly it”, he explained, glancing at Grif. “Ours is a bit… wonky.”

“Wait, let me get this straight”, Grif put in, brow raised though Temple couldn’t see him do it. “You want me to fly the ship? Right now?”

“And follow us with it, yes. But calm down, you’ll have company. _SURGE!_ ”

Through the shadows, a familiar red armor approached without a sound. At the sight of it, Grif felt his breath catch, and he could only guess Henderson felt no diff—

Henderson screamed, then coughed, and fell on to his knees. A moment of silence for their fallen comrade.

“F-fucking shit that scared me…”

“I can see that…” Temple mumbled, honest to god baffled by the shaken Red. “You… You knew they were there. The others. You saw them before.” 

Grif rolled his eyes as Henderson hurried back to his feet. 

“ _Well excuse me!_ The day’s sucked ass so far! The night! _Whatever_ ”, Henderson snapped and picked up the pistol he had also dropped on the grass. Temple let him do it, too; they must not have appeared as much of a threat to the guy, Grif thought—

Hurray for yet another accurate assessment!

“Anyway”, Temple said, nodding towards the new Red who had turned their talk into a real circle jerk. “That’s Surge. I think you can guess – both of you? – just what he’s gonna be like, so there’s no need for any further introductions. Surge and Lorenzo will join you, Grif, on the Pelican, and Henderson can come with the rest of us. That clear?”

Henderson and Grif said nothing and Temple waited just for a moment longer before nodding his head. “Alright, good! Let us go!”

“ _Fun times_ ”, Grif mumbled so that only Henderson could hear him. He got no reply.

They hurried along, the Blues, Reds, Grif and Henderson having to first spend a while emptying out whatever rations and gear Henderson had still had with him at the Outpost. The only thing notable about that is how, in the dark of the night, the intruding team completely missed the Red Base’s elevator leading to the holo-chamber below, what with it being half blocked off by debris from an earlier, unrelated encounter.

Both Henderson and Grif were glad that detail had gotten overlooked, as Sarge would have no doubt found a way to track them down and kill them if they had let the holo-room be further disturbed. And it wasn’t even that odd of a thing for the two men to worry about, what with Surge _right there_ and ready to do the same for any reason and at a moment’s notice.

And then they were off.

The flight through space was far less fun now than it had been on the way over. With Surge breathing down his neck, Grif sat by the controls of the Pelican and watched Valhalla grow into nothing but a distant memory in the rearview mirror (there is one in a Pelican, right?) He sighed.

Meanwhile aboard Temple’s ship, Henderson was back in his armor but finally unarmed, the others having taken both his and Grif’s weapons before the raiding had begun. With nothing else to do with his hands, Temple had given Henderson the touchpad he had been religiously carrying around until then.

Henderson had no time to feel homesick, with Temple instructing him to start reading: Every article on the UNSC and Project Freelancer’s wrongdoings right there and ready to be burned into his memory. In regard to some (if not all) of them, Henderson had a feeling they were not written by very reliable sources.

But since Henderson already hated both of these “organizations” with a burning passion, what would it hurt to read some more Fake News! It passed the time.

Preaching; on its way to success?

* * *

**— A LITTLE WHILE LATER, REALLY FAR AWAY —**

* * *

Sometime earlier, Simmons had felt it necessary to do his part and walk up to a random employee aboard the UNSC scapecraft to ask if they could briefly drop by Valhalla before continuing on their way. No one had taken him too seriously, and Simmons hadn’t been nearly as demanding as he could have/should have (what with Henderson’s life literally on the line), but he had been quick to tell himself to let it be and, just… live with the consequences.

It wasn't a great lesson to teach people, and most certainly one Simmons had long since learned _did not fucking work_ , but ehhh… Instead of bothering with Henderson’s situation, Simmons needed to find Grif.

And it was Grif who was Henderson’s “friend”, anyway. He could deal with the guy’s self inflicted isolation if he so wished to; it was none of Simmons' business!

Those thoughts had led Simmons to spend a long while looking for Grif aboard the spacecraft, but he hadn’t found him in any of the usual places. As far as Simmons knew, none of the food or rations had gone missing, and even the hardest to find nooks had been left unoccupied.

That was worrisome, to say the least.

“Simmons!” And then Washington had walked up to him. “Is anyone going to tell me where Henderson went?”

“What…?”

“I haven’t seen him since we took off from Valhalla”, Washington said in thought and Simmons had a terrible, horrible realization. “I get why he wouldn’t have wanted to join the press conference and meet the Chairman, neither did I, but… Where is he?”

“You want to talk to him…?” Simmons asked, very carefully. 

Similar to Grif and the guy's odd relationship, Wash and Henderson had become something of a… duo, in the short time the Red had been traveling with them. Not that those two were actual friends either, or got along _at all_ , but Wash felt bad that he had apparently left Henderson in the hands of Project Freelancer without thinking of him twice since. 

And because Washington was very apologetic about the whole thing, he had sort of, subconsciously at least, made it his personal mission in life to worry over Henderson’s safety… Though the Red vehemently despised him for it… 

In fact, Henderson wanted nothing to do with their two Freelancers. So it was complicated? 

But anyway. 

What mattered to Simmons was this: Washington didn’t know that Henderson had stayed behind at Valhalla. Meaning, Wash didn’t know that them still being aboard this spacecraft, and on their way to the very opposite direction, pretty much meant Simmons and Grif had knowingly abandoned him there. Again.

“I’m just wondering”, Wash said, looking around and failing to not seem overly worried for the Red. “Have you seen him?”

“Uh…”

Simmons had been lost for words, but thankfully he didn’t have long to think about it.

The next thing they knew, the Hand of Merope was being ripped in half. The two ends of the spacecraft were sent flying only for a second before being pulled right back down to a planet named Chorus. 

A whole lot of things would happen on that planet, but everyone reading should be pretty familiar with the basics by now. Important bit is that Grif wouldn’t be there. 

Instead of a civil war, Grif had gotten himself lost in a desert and right about to lose his mind. Good for him he had Henderson for company though, as it would soon turn out to be Temple who was in trouble trying to deal with their bullshit.


	3. Let the game begin...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You would have been pardoned if you had just shown your dumb face to the press with us! And if you had, we wouldn’t fucking be here!”

“You think he’s listening in on us?”

“He’s a creep. So yeah.”

“I don’t think… well.”

“You don't think I should be insulting our ever so 'gracious host'? Worried for my safety _now_ , asshole?”

“Hey! I came here with you, didn’t I? I… I had a choice not to… Unlike you.”

“ _We both know you fucking didn’t_.”

“But maybe I did! And if I had stayed at Valhalla, someone other than you could have come and, yeah, wouldn’t that have been better? I could have stayed behind, as a way to– to leave a message. For someone to come save you, instead.”

“Tell yourself that if you want, but then it’ll just make you look _even worse_ for coming 'with me'.”

“…damn it.”

“On your point, though”, Grif said, just to rub it in, “Wash will so try to save you if he ever finds out you were meant to be at Valhalla. Honestly, you should have just told him you needed a lift, not me; even you could have trusted him to come! He’s so in love with you it fucking hurts to watch…” 

Grif found it more than a little funny, even now. And not because the concept of the ‘big, scary Freelancer’ caring for the safety of a mere sim trooper was unthinkable, but because he knew how much of a sore subject it was for _Henderson,_ whose hatred for Washington ran deep.

With nothing but a huff, Henderson turned his back at Grif. Staring at it, Grif felt it necessary to add, “Ow. Always the cold shoulder with you.”

Locked up in a room inside the Desert Gulch’s Red Base, the two of them began a very long winded game of shutting the hell up. Standing right outside of said Desert Gulch’s Red Base, one Mark Temple was very confused with the whole situation. 

Three’s the charm.

* * *

“It’s a Gulch… In a Desert… Desert Gulch… Red Base, Blue Base, walls all around! So much fucking sand, not dirt, all over, _all up in my armor—_ ”

The next day, Grif and Henderson had been allowed to sleep in late due to the previous night’s move having taken so long. When they had finally woken up, it hadn’t taken long for Cronut to come let them out of their room, the two of them now sat in the shade of the Red Base and… melting, pretty much.

What a turn of events.

Grif wouldn’t stop complaining and Henderson… Well. He rather enjoyed his brunch: They had their armor back on, except for their helmets, and in their hands they had a plate of fish each.

“Where did the fish even come from?” Henderson muttered, ignoring Grif to better study the fresh looking dish. It was alright, tasted pretty good actually, but it was a strange choice of cuisine for a desert planet.

Fish would go bad and fast, in the heat.

Surge was there, too, still watching over them with this sense of silence that was just all sorts of off-putting. Unlike _Sarge,_ who would have so many lines to throw at their further misery, Surge seemed too pissed off to do even that much. He seemed angry just to be there with them.

In fact, though he had ordered Henderson to straighten his back when they had been emptying out Valhalla, Surge hadn’t once pointed his visor at Grif. From his sullen expression, Henderson wondered if Grif was trying not to take it personally; or to avoid feeling like he missed his ‘commanding officer’ yelling at him when he was allowed to keep on complaining:

“FISH! Fucking fish—!”

“Do you like it? I tried a new recipe!” said Cronut, running in view with a plate of his own. Before Grif could snarl at him next, Henderson repeated his earlier evaluation out loud: 

“Yeah. It tastes pretty good actually.”

Cronut seemed very pleased to hear it and Henderson could guess it was rare to get any compliments out of his usual company. The Reds and Blues would _never_.

And that made Henderson wonder some more. He had never actually “met” Donut, so… Cronut was an all-new experience.

That in mind, there were a few reasons he could think of for why Grif didn’t once look in the lightish-red trooper’s way. And as the three of them were not wearing their helmets to eat, Henderson was left to wonder one last thing: did Cronut look like Donut? At all?

Choosing to focus on one of the bigger mysteries of life instead, now that there was an actual chance it could be solved, Henderson went to ask Cronut:

“Where did you get the fish—?”

“Why are you making us sit outside to eat when it’s who-the-fuck-knows-how-many degrees out here?” Grif drowned out Henderson's question while glaring at his fish, still making no move to turn and face Cronut.

“Oh!” Cronut sounded happy to serve. “The air conditioning in the Base is well and truly buuuusted, believe me, so the armor will cool your regions better than being in that stuffy old air inside!”

“Why… the fuck… would you wanna stay at this place…?” Grif said to himself, still staring at the fish that stared right back with its dead, dead eyes. The fish had no answers to give, and Henderson turned back to Cronut to try asking him again:

“Where did you get the—?”

Buckey showed up, glaring at his own fish in a way that told Henderson he was an expert at it by now. The Blue, the first in their view come to think of it, turned his glare at the Reds.

Well he too has anger issues; guess they’re all the same, Henderson thought. It was a shame, since he rather liked Tucker… 

On that note: Though Buckey sounded like him some, he looked nothing like Tucker! Good to know there were limits to this coincidence (or; to Project Freelancer’s so-called “perfectionism”).

Before Buckey could say anything to the group, and before Henderson could ask about the origins of the fish again, Grif repeated his own point, but more loudly this time to get some proper audience reaction going:

“ _WHY would you wanna stay at this place?_ ”

“Nostalgia”, was Cronut’s fast reply, surprising Henderson when he watched this other Red’s cheerful smile fall. Henderson hadn't thought it possible. “We don’t have to like being here.”

Buckey snorted. “The more we all hate it, the better it makes _him_ feel…”

“And that's not a bad thing!” Cronut said with a nod. “It keeps us focused, ready to nail our target!”

“…the hell is wrong with these guys”, Grif turned to Henderson, addressing him in whisper for the first time since their “argument” last night/early morning. “Seriously, what did Temple tell you this place was for? Obviously a cult, but…”

“Before you showed up at Valhalla?” Henderson asked, annoyed now. “Already told you; I wasn’t listening!”

“Good work, man. So proud of you”, Grif hissed back and, without breaking eye contact with Henderson, stabbed his fish in the eye. Henderson flinched, then remembered his actual interests. He turned back to Cronut to ask:

“Where did you get—?”

"We've been expanding! The issue with us running hot is ancient history!" Cronut exclaimed, then frowned, already done with his own fish. When did that happen?

"There's more to the place than you can see…" Buckey agreed, smirking in a way that told Henderson _he_ seriously might be the next in line to get stabbed. “If we didn’t have to keep an eye on you guys, we’d already be out of the heat…”

"It's actually really, pretty cool! It's underwater", Cronut said conspiratorially and with another nod, and then there was the belated sound of a shotgun being cocked. Cronut didn’t care for the warning though and, to both Henderson and Grif’s surprise, it seemed even Surge didn’t care enough about guarding this secret(?) to do anything more about it. 

Henderson ignored all that though, thinking: Underwater? That’ll explain the fish, then!

"I think the place used to be for monitoring the 'simulation' we were a part of? After we found it, we've been sure to redecorate! Although Temple told us to stick with a shade of blue for the main color palette… I told him that it wouldn’t work, made you tired and washed him out, but he insisted!" Cronut complained, though he did finish his speech on a more thoughtful note:

“The shade does compliment his brooding, though. Cannot disagree with that!” 

"Why… do you think… that I care. About any of this." Grif sat there and ignored the fact that he was the one who had kept the conversation going in the first place. Unbeknownst to Henderson, though, that had been the moment he had first mourned the loss of his actual team of Reds and Blues. At least he was used to their antics, but these guys were… different. _Worse_. 

Staring at his stabbed fish and feeling the two clones’ eyes on him, Grif was reminded of why he actually, sort of might just one day be able to say “I like the Reds and Blues” and mean it. Maybe.

Or maybe not.

"I care!” Henderson jumped into the conversation, and immediately noticed how the Blue and Red trooper seemed to only then remember he was even there. Forever lost on the sidelines with him. "I mean, if it's underwater, you mean it's actually cool down there, right? And by that I mean cold… Unlike here, in the Desert that you’ve been ordered to stand on with us. But why should you?"

“Oh yeah.” Grif did perk up at that. “Why can’t you just show off your underground base while you’re ‘guarding’ us? You already told us; it's hardly a secret _now_.”

They didn’t get an immediate answer. 

Cronut went to look at Surge, who had already snuck off somehow, and Buckey, too, seemed to actually consider their words. Obviously for his own good, and not that of their… Were they prisoners?

Henderson had been in prison once, or at least locked up by Project Freelancer. He felt a lot more ‘chill’ now than he had back then, so he guessed the answer was… complicated.

Not waiting for the others to come up with an answer, Grif pressed on with the whole ‘desert be hot’ issue:

"And here I thought Valhalla at night was freezing… Or Blood Gulch. You guys sure got the short end of the stick, didn't ya?" 

"Extreme heat during the day, equally extreme sub zeroes at night…" Buckey said, now squinting at Grif in thought. "Nothing but the best for us."

Before he and Cronut could actually fuck up and take the two of them in the underwater ‘base’ to cool off, however, Temple strolled right up with an already finished plate of fish in hand. 

“There you are!” Temple called out cheerfully, and Grif’s hold on his own plate tightened. ”Time for your initiation!”

“ _What a_ _creep_.”

Henderson punched Grif on the arm to shut him the hell up. It wasn’t gonna work.

And now the fish would have to wait.

* * *

“Being a sim trooper doesn’t mean we’ve never had any talent, we were just never given a chance to… show it off”, Temple said, sat on the edge of a table and right in front of Grif and Henderson. It reminded Grif of being at school, but he had actually liked his old teachers in comparison to this guy.

“We are trying to change that. To prove the world wrong and earn back our dignity. Did you know? Before the article about you, the Reds and Blues, taking down Project Freelancer was published, most of us had never even been reported MIA to whatever relatives we had back on Earth…! The UNSC had no real paperwork prepared for us so, for not returning home, we were marked down as… deserters.”

Temple’s expression was grave. There was a beat of silence before he sighed, adding, “Yeah, I know. It’s pretty fucking bad.” 

Henderson leaned forward, nodding along as if the information was either interesting or something he had already thought of, now glad to have it confirmed. Grif scoffed.

Temple paid their very opposite reactions no mind however, taking out his pad to once more show them the article of the Reds and Blues “heroism”. He passed it over to Henderson.

“You were pardoned and, in theory, so were we… But since there is no paperwork, there is no proof! No proof to state that we, all of us, were ever sold off in the first place; thus nothing to hold against the UNSC for it! To most of us that means that if we were to ever show our faces and attempt a return to Earth… Everyone there would still consider us as traitors. Including the UNSC.”

“That’s what I said!” Henderson said, turning to Grif. “Or, that’s what I thought!”

“You would have been pardoned if you had just shown your dumb face to the press with us! And if you had, we wouldn’t fucking be here!” Grif snapped at Henderson, then turned to lift a brow at Temple in challenge. “And? What’s your plan to change all that?”

“Oh, there are a few ideas floating around! Our… ‘rebranding and rebuilding‘ have taken a good, few years already and it’s all been very slow, what with us having to have avoided catching the military’s eye. But since your article came out, we’ve been thinking of picking up speed—”

“Right, I’ve wanted to ask: At Valhalla, were you actually trying to pretend like you were the Reds and Blues when you first saw me? It would make more sense if you did, the whole thing with the pad”, Henderson asked rather earnestly with said pad in his hand. Apparently that was something he felt very strongly about. 

And excuse me, _but WHAT?_

Grif looked between Henderson and Temple, his eyes growing wide in interest. “Wait, what was that?”

“No! No, _we were not_. It was a… misunderstanding”, Temple said, crossing his arms slowly for an obvious tell of: I am lying right now. “And it’s not like the Reds and Blues have, well, a me; why would I have been the one to walk up to you, huh?”

“Cause sim troopers are idiots and wouldn’t have noticed? And cause you’re a wannabe-Church through and through, not trusting your obvious underlings to talk in your place?” Grif threw in without even knowing what the whole thing was about, just glad to revel in the misfortune on Temple’s face. “Oh man, Henderson, they tried to pretend to be us, what? How did it go??”

“Um… Poorly? By the way, this photo of you is so bad! Simmons isn’t even in it, and how did that happen? I thought he was the one excited for the ‘glory it would bring him back home’…?”

“Oh he is, look” – Grif leaned in closer to the pad in Henderson’s hands, to better point at the photo – “he’s riiight behind Sarge there. Hiding.”

Henderson snorted. “Oh shit, you’re right! Man, he must be SO pissed to have that be the—”

“—aaanyway!” Temple snapped, pulling the pad out of their hands and putting it away. That done, his arms immediately returned to their rightful place: circling his midriff in a tight hold. “The plan, you asked?”

“Sure”, Grif said with a shrug, eyeing Temple. “Let’s say I’m interested in this 'plan' of yours.”

“I actually might be”, Henderson put in. “Not that I _need_ to have my name cleared – I’ve actually been marked down as KIA, so, better that than AWOL – but there’s something to be said for honor. I guess.”

“Honor it is, then!” Temple smirked and no, it was not a look the thoughts of “honor” are meant to bring out of you. Seeing his twisted smile, Grif rolled his eyes and Henderson leaned back in his seat rather uncomfortably.

“First, the plan is to prepare. I’ve had Loco – the ‘match’ to your Caboose, I believe the name is – start building some things—”

“You trust your match for Caboose to be building you some things?” Grif interrupted. “I mean, Caboose has built some pretty neat things, maybe, but… Alright. I guess I would trust Caboose more than I would _this guy's engineering_.”

Grif smirked at Henderson, and Henderson’s feathers had obviously been ruffled by the bite because he literally hissed at Grif.

It was Temple’s turn to snort. “Loco has a knack for these sorts of things, I’d trust him with my life—” he paused and made a face. ”No, not in general I wouldn’t. BUT, within these very specific limitations, yes. With my life.”

“ _Wow_.” 

“And he’s building what exactly? Is that the… the thing, the one you thought my help could be useful with?” Henderson asked. So some parts he had listened to, Grif thought; just not any of the details that mattered. 

“Yes! It’s being built just in case, for security, using what we’ve salvaged from the UNSC and Project Freelancer”, Temple explained without explaining anything. Grif bit his lip to keep his mouth shut about it. 

They weren’t getting anywhere if he interrupted any more than he absolutely had to. The sooner Temple was done with the spiel and let them leave the room, the better. 

“And you want me to help Loco, was it?” 

Henderson seemed curious to see just what this mystery build was going to be, which is probably why he wasn’t any more adamant to be told what it was. Sometimes nerds like him really wanted to have that wow-moment in person, looking up at some big, ugly contraption with tears of true bliss in their eyes.

Grif wasn’t interested, but Temple had turned all of his attention at Henderson now, so… Things were going pretty well for him.

“Exactly! Your help would be perfect! The sooner we have the prototype online, the sooner we’ll be able to move on to other, better things!”

“And what do you need Grif for?” Henderson asked, pulling him right back in it like the traitor he was. Grif sighed.

“Oh I already told you I’m in need of a new pilot”, Temple said and that did manage to give Grif some sense of hope. If he played his cards right, Temple might actually let him fly, and if he flew, he could not only enjoy himself some but also plan an escape/kidnapping of his own—

“—to gather parts and supplies, as more will be needed the closer we get to the final target of our rightful—”

Grif snapped out of his thoughts, having completely missed out on whatever spiel Temple had just gone off with. “Huh?”

Temple paused before turning back to Grif. His eyes were blank. “…huh?”

“Didn’t quite catch that”, Grif said and turned to Henderson. “What?”

“I did…? But that doesn’t mean I understood any of it”, was Henderson's quiet reply. He turned to Temple. “Um?”

Temple took a deep breath, then another. The arms wrapped around his middle tightened their hold some more.

“The UNSC”, Temple said, more slowly now, “will pay for that which they have done to us. Likewise will Project Freelancer, or what is left of it anyway.”

“Pay?” Grif made a face. “Freelancer? We already took care of—”

“And I already told you that I am _unimpressed by the way you lot ‘took care of it’!_ ” Temple yelled, not at Grif but in the general space around him, sure to keep himself by his table and out of arm's reach. Anger issues all around.

“You didn’t even try to make the public aware of the HELL we were PUT THROUGH!” Temple continued screaming, very pointedly. “We were left with NOTHING! And there you were, posing with the enemy: Both the Chairman of the UNSC, and the Freelancers!”

Grif’s brain did its very best to follow along. “Wait, you mean Wash and Caroli—?”

_“THEY HAVE WRONGED US!”_

A beat of silence, which Temple used to clear his throat. Then he repeated, a biiiiit more calmly this time, “Yes. Them. The Freelancers. They have wronged us.”

“Mhmm… Yeah, I agree, and so does Henderson. Hell, he agrees more than I do, _about both the UNSC_ _AND Washington_ , but I’m still pretty fucking sure that when _you_ say 'us'—” Grif’s own expression must have been very glum after the past twenty minutes of listening to Temple talk without talking, in pointless circles “—you’re not actually talking about ‘us’.”

“Then who do you think I am talking about, Grif? Who have they wronged, if not us all!” Temple snapped back, his arms remaining crossed. Whiny bitch.

“Uh, _you?_ Obviously. Who the hell did you think I was gonna name! Obama?”

Temple’s shoulders squared and, in a snap, his arms were released from the death grip he had held over his midriff. Somehow, Grif had imagined the man would shatter into pieces if he had ever let the hold go. Proven wrong, that one.

“Oh very funny, _Grif!_ Does it matter, then, huh? Even if I happen to have some ‘personal issues’ tied to the UNSC as well as your pals? Does it really matter if we all have our own issues, as long as our goal remains the same; do you _really care_ if I’m not as _holistic_ about _my true feelings_ as you’d ‘like me to be’”, Temple… said? with an overabundance of air quotation marks in all the wrong places. “ _Huh?_ ”

On the sidelines, Henderson pursed his lips. Very, very carefully, he said, “No?”

“NO! IT DOES NOT!” Temple agreed immediately. “Thank you, Walter!”

“First name basis already? _Whoop-di-fucking-do_ with you guys… Get rid of one kissass, gain another”, Grif scoffed and Henderson moved his hand in a way that implied he had almost given him the middle finger, then thought better off it.

After the last twenty minutes of pointless speeches, Temple didn’t have that level of self control left in him. So, Grif still got flipped off.

And that was the end to the first day’s lesson. The Subject: How to properly hate those who Temple hates.

* * *

**— ON CHORUS, STUFF WILL CONTINUE TO HAPPEN —**

* * *

It had been… a very uncharacteristic thing for them to have bonded over.

Caboose had been sad because Church wasn’t there, Washington had felt like shit over Henderson having been left behind, and Grif had obviously died when the UNSC’s spacecraft had crashed (…because what other option is there). It’s not up for debate who that last one had hurt the most.

All in all, the mood in their new Canyon had never been a great one. And to the two mercenaries preparing to play with their marks, it started them off with an excellent advantage!

Because the Reds and Blues had found themselves stranded yet motivated to fight.

Simmons was grieving yet angry, Sarge wanted to whoop some ass, Caboose had made a new friend, Tucker was left with a lack of purpose, and Washington just wanted to find a way off the goddamned planet so that he could go and rescue Henderson already – after Simmons had finally admitted that he wasn’t dead, like Grif so obviously must have been; just back in Valhalla and destined to starve to death. 

All that had made them a force to be reckoned with. 

The Federal Army and the New Republic’s soldiers would stand very little chance against the newly inspired Reds and Blues. Which, in turn, will help boost (especially Simmons’) brooding hero status quite a bit.

…

It’s also worth mentioning that the way Locus and Felix would still manage to split up the few remaining Reds and Blues isn’t going to help with the team's mood any. In fact, it will make them _very eager_ to just get on with the rescue and then some, which would indirectly speed up the process of the two mercenaries’ plan being unveiled to the public of Chorus.

In short: The civil war won't last for much longer.


	4. ass = whooped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Did you get to say goodbye?”

Grif might be focused on an upcoming escape attempt (as far as Henderson knew), but Henderson was all about outliving his competition. So yes, unlike Grif’s persona of uncaring rudeness aimed at their captor, Henderson went with a little more “finesse” to his survival instincts. 

Aka. Sidelines were the place to be!

Whoever in his company Henderson considered the biggest threat is the one whose words he would always cling on to. And since Temple seemed mentally preoccupied with choosing a course of action that _would_ _work_ _on Grif_ , it made it easy for the other Red to slide on by the Blue’s more bloodthirsty attention.

Which leads us to Henderson’s current success story of:

“This is… incredible…” It wasn’t a lie.

Temple had taken Henderson down to the underwater base as soon as the third day of their stay at Desert Gulch. The less said about day two, the better.

“Isn’t it? Got to give Project Freelancers some credit there, they didn’t cheap out on the underground portion of our little Gulch”, Temple said without meaning it, walking a few steps ahead of Henderson. 

Not minding Temple’s more negative take on the infrastructure, Henderson chose to remain damn impressed by the base, the view, as well as the fish! Most important of all, though, it was nice and cold down here. 

It reminded him of home— Ugh. No. 

It reminded him of _Valhalla_.

“See, down here.” Temple waited for Henderson to follow along. The Red had stopped to hold his palms against the cool glass panes, admiring the way the bright blue water reflected off his armor. “We’ll take the elevator.”

“Elevator? _What?_ Just how intricate is this place!” Henderson said in awe, not recognizing his own voice. He felt more excited about this than he had about anything in a long, long time, and he couldn't hold it all in. “Damn! It’s more a lair than a base, so many hidey-holes!”

Temple made a face, which got stuck somewhere between a smirk and a look of disdain. “…It’s mostly made of hallways, since our Gulch never had those caves most Simulation Outposts seemed to have been fitted with.”

Way too fondly, Henderson thought back to the caves of Valhalla. They had saved his life once or twice, for better or for worse.

Tired of waiting, Temple stepped inside the elevator and Henderson snapped out of his thoughts, desperate to follow him without any further delay. As by his instinct, he really didn’t want to piss off this man.

The moment Henderson was inside the elevator, Temple pressed the button. “I don’t think all this was originally meant to be used for a bunch of sim troopers, though; in truth, I don’t think any of our Outposts were…”

“Really? What do you think this place was, then?” Henderson turned to him, curious to hear the answer. Temple huffed.

“Well, I think Project Freelancer must have simply confiscated otherwise abandoned corners of the still ongoing war, to remodel them for their own uses. Cheaply so. Sounds reasonable?”

“Ah… So, you think this was an actual… hideout. At some point. For the war”, Henderson thought out loud, and the part of his brain that was very much into structural engineering, yet sucked at it, ran through the logistics of it all. “Yeah. No use building high tech anything to use with sim troopers, is there?” 

“Not at all”, Temple agreed, “and here we are!”

The doors opened and Henderson went to take a stunned step forward, before Temple.

“O-oh _woah…_ ”

Temple snorted. “It’s literally just a room.”

That it was. A big room.

“A very big room. Underwater! It’s so cool! As in, it’s so cold. I do like that.” Other than the literal coolness of the place, Henderson actually was pretty damn disappointed that there wasn’t a big, ugly contraption for him to awe at.

“Yup!” Temple said with sudden cheer in his voice, strolling past Henderson and right towards the other Blue already standing there in attention. “Most days, when we’re not out on a scavenger hunt, the whole crew gathers down here to chill. Other days, it’s all Loco’s domain!”

“Hello!” said Loco upon hearing his name, waving a hand at Henderson in a wide arc. They hadn’t met yet, huh – with the “clones”, it was easy to forget just who you had and hadn’t seen. “You are new!”

“He is, and he’s here to help you!” Temple cheerfully said, clapping Loco on the back. “Told you I’d find someone! And since his helmet’s all different from ours, can’t lose him!”

Not wearing his helmet, Henderson frowned. Maybe he should put it on?

“Oh, yes! I need help!” Loco looked around the big, big room with wires of all sorts and every color sticking out of the floor, walls and ceiling. 

Following his gaze, Henderson took in all the nothing around him. There was no awe to it; just some more of that good old confusion. 

Noticing Henderson’s unimpressed expression, Loco's own turned a bit more serious. He said, “I have it all in order, so you shouldn’t touch it yet. No. Don’t touch it yet.”

“Alright. I won't, but… What is this?” Henderson asked, crouching down by the wires Loco was working on and careful not to touch, though he oh-so badly wanted to. “How is a room below ground making things any more secure for you guys?”

“Safer for all of us – as in us including you. And it’s a prototype!” Temple replied, and sometime earlier he had probably explained that already. In Henderson’s humble opinion, Temple just wasn’t very good at approaching these things in the right order. 

“We’re testing out something we got from Project Freelancer”, Temple went on to say. “If we can work it out in here, we can adapt it aboard our ship… And if it works in the ship, it’s a sure way to keep us safe if anyone were to attack us. From there on out, I can also think of a few… other uses for it.”

Temple’s expression turned a bit more dreamy, and Henderson wasn’t interested in decoding that one.

“Alright…” Henderson said, and was immediately offered a bundle of wires by Loco. Although a little surprised by said Blue’s change of mind on the matter of “no touching”, he accepted them. “And what does it do? The room? I mean, what am I supposed to do to make it ‘work’ for you?”

“Connect the wires?” was Loco’s reply and Temple nodded, agreeing with his teammate. 

“Yeah. You do as Loco tells you to do, and it’s gonna be _just fine_.”

“Wait, you won’t tell me what the—?”

“I don’t know how any of it works, but I’m sure Loco can tell you all about it! But I, I have a bit of a problem to deal with”, Temple said before hurrying off with a casual wave of his hand. “Bye-bye!”

Henderson didn’t end up getting much more an explanation out of Loco either, so, that was something.

* * *

This so-called problem of Temple’s was named Dexter Grif. 

Surge stood in the shadows by the Red Base, with Cronut, Gene and Buckey also right there and watching the scene in a sullen silence. A moment later Temple joined them, his arms crossed in a familiar look of discomfort.

Grif had been told to run. In circles. Around the Red Base. In the desert. _Melting._

Everyone watching was melting too. It didn’t make for a good mood.

“Alright, you can stop now!” Temple called out. “Get the man some water!”

Gene walked up to where Grif had collapsed, a bottle thrown at his head. “Here you go, fatass. Try not to drown on it.”

Like a snake Grif hissed up at him. Gene just snorted.

“So… Can we go now?”

“Ugh… _Sure_ ”, Temple answered Buckey’s question like it took effort for him to do so. “Don’t go in the locker chamber though, I want Henderson and Loco to have their full focus on that thing. It shouldn’t take much longer for them to be finished, I think…”

“Loco told you that?” Buckey snorted, back on his feet and already following after Gene and Cronut on their way to the underwater laaa— BASE. Surge didn’t move a muscle. “His idea on the passage of time ain’t as linear as yours, and you know it…“

“Either way, the room itself looks pretty intact, like he’s near finished with it. I’ll take that as a good sign.” Temple licked his lips. “Henderson can probably light up the details later…”

Grif burst out laughing. He had heard enough.

“ _Henderson_ _fucking sucks!_ I already told you!”

His voice was raspy and breathless, but he was close enough for Temple to make out what he was saying anyway. Grif could already imagine the exasperated face he must have made underneath his dumb, blue helmet. 

“Grif… I’m telling you… I don’t want us to keep doing this shit! Yesterday” – the less said about yesterday, the better – “you really, almost made me lose it! You wouldn’t like me when I lose it…”

“And my punishment for not wanting to hear you talk in cryptic circles is to run them!” Grif cackled, sitting back painfully slow and sluggish to start drinking the water. “G-good one!”

Temple turned to the only other Red still left in their presence. “Surge? You can go too.”

There was a weight to the words that read as an order, and Grif could literally see the brief struggle it put Surge through. Why did the Desert Gulch’s Red Sergeant follow Temple’s orders, anyway? Why did any of them? Who put the Blue in charge? _Why?_

Surge walked away. Grif was left on the ground with no one but Temple for company.

“If you want to make your way to the shade, I can wait”, Temple said. He sat down by the Red Base’s entrance, right in the shadow Buckey had previously occupied.

“Before what? Before you bore my ears off?It’s yesterday all over—!”

“No. I won’t say shit.” Temple had his helmet on and maybe that’s what made it harder to read just what his voice was doing right about then; Grif had been learning to read his face for the first few days, but now Temple seemed to have started building up some new boundaries.

“What then? We’ll just sit around and wait for the sunset?” Grif snorted, the water gone by now. Not overthinking it, he threw the empty bottle at Temple, aiming straight at his face.

Temple caught it with practiced ease, dropping it to his side. “Sure. Whatever you’d like.”

The sun was going to kill him. That’s the only reason Grif made his way to the shade, to the other side of the entrance that Temple was sitting by.

“I—”

“You said you wouldn’t talk”, Grif said and Temple’s mouth shut with a snap, audible even with the helmet on. A moment of silence then, before Temple simply shrugged.

After that, there was no more talking that day.

* * *

Henderson did whatever Loco told him to do, which mostly consisted of him holding a mismatch of wires and welding pieces of the floor back together. It was an odd job, but it sure beat staying out in the heat.

And Loco was pretty good company, after hanging out with no one other than Grif and Temple for the past few days. But no, none of that meant the work was easy… Because Grif was right: Henderson really did suck at this.

Annoyed with himself, Henderson gave up on trying to understand Loco’s explanation on what the room was meant to be used for. He went for a change of subject, hoping that the (hopeful) lack of technobabble in the answer would make it a little easier to understand:

“So, what’s up with Temple? He’s a bit… ehhh.”

“He’s my best friend!”

Church had been Caboose’s best friend, Henderson had sort of figured from his brief run-in with the Epsilon Unit. And although brief, he also felt like he knew for a fact that Church had been a lot more fun to be around than Temple could have ever hoped to be. It made him frown. 

“A weird choice of a friend…”

“Do you have a best friend?” Loco asked, not pausing in his meticulous work. The guy was really good at whatever he was doing, got to give him that. The "engineer" in Henderson was very jealous.

And then he paused to think of the actual question, which was a big mistake. Did he have a best friend?

“Uhh… No?”

“I have Temple, but I am not Temple’s best friend. It’s okay, though. No one should have to lose their best friend”, Loco said matter of factly, but didn’t quite sound like he was okay at all.

“He… lost a friend?” is the way Henderson chose to take Loco’s words. His voice had gone very quiet when he had asked his question.

Loco paused his work. “Have you lost a friend?” he asked and turned his terrifyingly focused eyes to study Henderson like he had caught on to something deeper in his reply. 

The gaze felt heavy and Henderson found himself gulping for breath underneath it.

Waiting it out changed nothing, with Loco appearing determined to give him all the time in the world to come up with an answer. And what was up with the Blues and Reds pressuring him into getting personal, fucking hell!

“I… I did. Sort of. I guess?” Henderson said, though he really didn’t want to. He didn't even want to think about it; and he actually hadn’t, not for a long time now. 

“Not a ‘best friend’ in the usual sense, just this… soldier. We thought we were. Soldiers. Hah. She was pretty cool, for the six months I knew her. At Valhalla. You take what company you can get… out there…”

Loco nodded like he got it. And he probably did if he counted Temple as his “friend”. 

“Did you get to say goodbye?”

“No.”

Because Henderson had run and hidden in the caves of Valhalla. While everyone else had been killed. But hadn’t he died too – if only in name? – when the UNSC had signed those papers, crossed over his name, told his family—

And then it hit him, a brand new hurt: Henderson didn't even know her first name. He had never asked. 

“That’s not okay! Everyone should be able to say goodbye to their best friend!” Loco exclaimed and went back to his wires, impossibly even more determined with his work now. “When I am done with the room, and while I work on the room, I will use the parts left and help Temple open the door so he can finally say it to Biff! And then I can help you say goodbye to your friend, too!”

After a second, Loco paused and turned to meet Henderson’s blank gaze. The Blue’s smile was wide and comforting in its own way. “Okay?”

And Henderson… 

Henderson had nothing to say. He had already stopped thinking about it.

* * *

They had a new room now, down in the underwater base. And with couches to sleep on.

It said something about Temple that he wanted Grif and Henderson to keep sharing the space. Maybe he hoped Henderson’s more accepting take on their captivity would rub off on the other man.

Well. There was very little hope of that happening, Henderson thought, taking in Grif’s not yet healed bruises from yesterday. Today had added sunken eyes to his look, and in his shaking hand Grif carried a half-empty bottle of water.

Henderson didn’t know where to start, but he tried anyway, “Do you think we’re still being—?”

“Who cares, hey, _Henderson;_ what’ve you been up to?” Grif snapped, his tone low and grating. “Had a good time today?”

Temple would probably be listening in still, could be watching, and Henderson couldn’t just… say or do whatever he wanted. Grif obviously knew it too, which is why he took charge of leading the conversation—

At least that’s what Henderson hoped Grif’s goal was. The more animosity between the two of them, the less likely Temple was to pay them – or at least, Henderson– any unnecessary attention. And yes. Henderson so hoped Grif had the same thought in mind, what with his constant snapping otherwise making Henderson feel very bad about the whole thing.

“I’ve been… helping out Loco. Don’t know with what”, Henderson replied, sticking to honesty. Since he counted himself as being very much under Temple’s influence still, it meant he cared quite a lot about… well, not about _what_ he said but about _the_ _way_ he said it.

After all, looking at the shape Grif was in, he didn’t want to take any of Temple’s hits for acting out. He was nothing but a dumb sim trooper who did not want to come across as a real threat, no sir – although much more aggressive with it, Grif must have had the same strategy in play.

Henderson hoped.

“It’s been interesting enough…” Henderson mumbled when Grif had made no comment. That changed it.

“Mm-hmmmmmmmmmmm… You’ve been _so fine_ talking to the guy planning to kill Carolina and Wash, cause yeah, pretty sure that’s the plan there. Didn’t think you’d hate them that much!”

There was nothing new to being uncomfortable, and Henderson rubbed his hands together under Grif’s stare. _He so hoped…_

“You have… any ideas?”

If Grif was pissed off and willing to talk without care for the consequences, Henderson would let him go at it. They couldn’t just not talk or they would lose their only way to be on the same page if there ever was to be a plan of action they could put to use together… Or something…

Because yeah. Henderson felt like he could survive under Temple’s thumb, but… yes. Grif had a point.

Although Henderson was pretty curious to see what Temple was putting together against the UNSC, the same didn’t fly with the whole “revenge against the Freelancers” part of the deal: Henderson may have problems with them, but no part of him actually wanted to see Agent Washington dead _._

If there was a way to get the fuck out of the situation they had found themselves in, he would choose it over Temple in a heartbeat.

“Think the Reds and Blues have figured out where I went by now?” Grif asked instead of keeping at the previous matter, falling back on one of the couches. “Think they’ll try to find us?”

“…Don't ask me. They’re your friends, not mine. I didn’t even think _you’d_ come back for me.” 

Grif snorted, and Henderson tried very, very hard not to think over his own words. 

“Big regret that one”, Grif said after a moment, the water bottle becoming crumbled in his hold. The sound it made wasn’t great, causing Henderson to flinch. “Better not hold our breath for a rescue, huh.”

Neither one of them slept very well that night.

* * *

**— THIS SILENCE IS HAUNTING —**

* * *

One Mark Temple couldn’t sleep at all. 

He spent his night standing in a desert, with an empty can of beer in one hand and meticulously cleaning off sand from a pair of plastic folding chairs with the other. At some point he lit a fire pit and sat down on one such chair – it a miracle how the poor old thing could hold up the weight of his armor – and let out a deep sigh.

Temple took off his helmet. Placed it on the sand. Didn’t look down at it once.

Desert Gulch at night was freezing. It’s been a while since Temple’s last been self aware enough to notice that fact.

He hated the place with a burning passion, and it was better that way.

That night was meant to be no different to his usual routines, Temple staring in the distance with a singular focus and burning anger. This desert was a grave to one man only, as far as he knew, but he had a feeling that would be changing soon. 

To him, it wasn’t as foreboding of a thought as one might have expected. Although he still sort of disliked the idea of revenge, more than he disliked the idea of becoming a “villain” for doing something his heart thought it desired (aka. a distraction), his mind on the matter had been long set…

And how exactly did any of this make him the “villain”, anyone care to tell him? To hunt down these people and then… Yeah. To live to see the day Agent Carolina was no more, and neither was the UNSC.

Temple had thought about all that and more, dreamed of it a thousand times, so why… Why did it still make him feel… like… _this_.

He felt disgusted and tired; angry with himself more than the world, and that just wouldn’t do! He stood up and stomped on the flames, to smother them dead. 

Then, Temple put his helmet back on with a smooth click. It was time to get back to bed, not that he would sleep any. 

There was so much more work to do in the morning.


End file.
